The Earl's King

by M J Porter

  Ælfgar suppressed a burst of laughter at the fury on Wulfstan’s face at being interrupted, which turned to consternation as Orkning explained to his cousin who the girl was that he was happily trying to entice to his bed.

  The look of horror that swept over Wulfstan’s face caused even Elgiva to laugh softly at his side.

  Orkning, ever the gentleman, turned to the confused Edith, who should have been under the protection of her distracted mother, while Wulfstan slunk away. The older man engaged her in polite conversation until Wulfstan was far from her influence, and only then made his apologies and left.

  “All well done,” Elgiva offered her approval, and Ælfgar agreed. He was going to have to ensure that his cousins were aware of all of Earl Godwine’s close adherents, including his huge family. Ælfgar felt as though a month barely passed without the addition of either a new baby or a younger sibling being deemed old enough to take on more official duties at Court. Edith Godwinesson was merely the latest to be introduced to the members of the Court.

  The net was in danger of closing around the House of Leofwine, and Ælfgar would be pleased when his own marriage produced the next generation to begin countering the threat.

  Not that that was his main thought on his wedding night. Far from it in fact. But, despite his father’s command, he found it hard to stop his busy mind from working, even at his own wedding.

  A tight grip on his arm and he turned to meet the horrified face of his new wife.

  “Why has he done this?” she hissed venomously through tight lips, while Ælfgar followed her gaze to see what offended her so much.

  With a sinking heart, he understood the source of her distress, for King Harald had not come alone. No, while his mother droned in one ear, about the need for a good wife, a wife as well connected as Lady Elgiva was for Lord Ælfgar, his wife, all unknown to his mother, was on public display before the hall.

  Forced to sit on her husband’s knee before the great and mighty of the land, none there would think she was anything but a whore to amuse the king through the wedding feast. Certainly, Lady Ælfgifu didn’t acknowledge the woman.

  “For the love of God,” Ælfgar growled through tight lips. The king, a twisted smile on his face, was rubbing at Alfifa’s breasts with wild abandon, and although she sat still as stone, Ælfgar knew the poor woman must be humiliated. He only prayed her mother was not within the hall. He still felt remiss for having failed to do anything to protect Alfifa from Harald so far.

  Alfifa was no whore to be used in such a way. But what could he do?

  Desperately he tried to think of a way out of the predicament, his wife growing more and more distressed at his side. No one knew the secret of the king’s wedding, apart from him, and only because his wife had told him. Ælfgar could hardly call the king to order before everyone, but neither could he allow his wife to become even more distressed than she already was.

  Sweeping the hall for some sort of distraction, his eyes once more caught Orkning. Orkning too must have seen what the king was doing, for a look of faint disgust marred his normally placid face. Yet, he couldn’t interrupt the king, as he’d just done young Wulfstan. No, Orkning was Leofric’s commanded man. He had no recourse to speak with his king, although it was evident that he would if he could.

  Yet, Orkning was not to be put off. Standing abruptly, he stood and strode to where Leofric was engaged in conversation with Earl Siward. Ælfgar had been aware of the two men talking and laughing, only occasionally serious, although their eyes were busy watching every conversation within the hall. Orkning, with a brief word of apology, interrupted the two men without hesitation. Ælfgar watched in disbelief as Orkning called the king’s behaviour to their attention.

  Even from this position, Ælfgar could see his father’s flare of anger in the stiffening of his shoulders, and after a brief conversation, both Siward and Leofric made their way to the king. Bowing into his presence, both were invited to speak with the king, as he dismissed both his wife and his mother in one movement.

  Yet, still his wife hovered. Having never been introduced to any members of the royal family, she was totally reliant either on the king’s goodwill or Elgiva’s, at Ælfgar’s side. Hastily, Ælfgar stood and turned to his wife, a smile on his lips, as he invited her to join him. A low rumble of noise spread through the room at the movement, a few drunken calls followed, and Ælfgar grinned to hear them, although he’d rather have not.

  With a bow to all who’d attended, he took his wife’s hand and led her past the king, where he spoke with his father. With another bow and a curtsey from his wife, who also swept her friend up while the king was distracted, the three of them erupted from the massive hall, the door opening automatically for them as even the door warden recognised the needs of a newly married couple to spend some time alone.

  Without a glance at the other woman with them, Ælfgar walked through the brightly flaring brands that lit the dark forecourt and made his way to the smaller dwelling that had been put aside for their use that night. The hall would be filled with men and women too drunk to move, and was being put to use as a general sleeping area, should the feast ever end.

  Ælfgar’s mother and father, alert to the awkwardness of providing a grand feast for so many, and sleeping accommodations as well, had ensured Ælfgar and his new wife would have some privacy.

  For all that, Ælfgar doubted his marriage night was about to proceed as he’d thought it would. Barely through the door, his wife took Alfifa into her arms and sat her before the small fire that had been laid for them.

  The building, usually the home of the steward of Earl Leofric’s Oxford home was a well-appointed building, an exact copy of the larger hall only a third of the size. It was lit with a few brands, and a sleepy servant made to rise from his position beside the hearth, only for Ælfgar to smile and wave him back to sleep.

  He didn’t want the man to overhear what his wife and her friend spoke about. Ælfgar doubted it would be well phrased toward the king, and anyone caught repeating the words by some overzealous courtier might find themselves in trouble.

  For the time being, he closed his ears to the heated debate taking place between the two women as he tended the fire. For all that he admired Alfifa’s courage where Harald was concerned, he also deplored her decision-making. She said Harald had wed her and promised to make her his queen. All had been going to plan until he’d suddenly changed his mind, on the night of his coronation, sworn her to secrecy on the threat of death, and begun treating her as little more than a slave.

  For all that, Alfifa would not leave Harald. She loved him, he loved her, and it was all just a matter of time. Or so Harald assured her. Ælfgar despaired. He knew there was no chance of Harald ever declaring his marriage to his mother, not when he’d maltreated his wife in public. Ælfgar had no idea what had prompted Harald’s change of heart or even why he insisted on the secret being shown so openly in public.

  Was it some sort of attempt to make a fool of his mother, with her constant prattle about finding him a wife? Or was it more insidious than that? Ælfgar wished he knew, because without understanding Harald’s reasonings, he was powerless to intercede on Alfifa’s behalf, and that tore at his wife’s heart while it infuriated him.

  The fire stoked and replenished, he finally turned to listen to his wife and Alfifa’s argument. As always, Alfifa berated his wife for worrying, and for taking her away from Harald. The fact she made no effort to immediately return to his side was a good sign. In the past, she’d kicked and shoved her way past Elgiva to return to Harald. She’d earned nothing but more bruises for her loyalty to him.

  “I’m a ruined woman,” Alfifa was pleading with Elgiva. “No one else will marry me if they know how I’ve been used by the king.”

  The old argument again. Ælfgar closed his eyes, already knowing his wife’s next words.

  “The marriage can be annulled. There are grounds aplenty, and no one will think less of you for doing so.”


  “The marriage would have to be acknowledged by the king for it to be annulled,” Alfifa argued.

  “Yes, but even that can be done quickly and in secrecy. Then you’ll be free. You’ll find another husband, I assure you.” Despite himself, Ælfgar found himself trying to convince Alfifa once more. It never worked, and yet he couldn’t stop himself from trying.

  A watery face turned his way, and he winced at the bruises under Alfifa’s eyes. She must have obscured them with colouring, but now they shone starkly in the bright light from the heaped fire and the few spattering candles.

  “But he’s my husband, and I love him.”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t treat you as his wife, as the King of England’s wife no less. You should wear his crown, not his bruises.” Anger laced Ælfgar’s voice. Harald was not at all the man he thought he should be, either as a king or a husband, and it was a constant disappointment to him. Even now, on his marriage night, he couldn’t get away from Harald and his mistakes.

  “He promises to make the union public, once he’s sure Harthacnut will not try and take England from him.” Even now Alfifa pleaded with Ælfgar to understand, but he couldn’t.

  “He’ll hurt you beyond healing,” his wife pleaded. “He’s filled with rage. Even you admit it.”

  “He’s a gentle man.”

  “No, he can be a gentle man, but not at the moment. And perhaps never. And the threat from Harthacnut will never be dealt with to his satisfaction. For your safety, and for your mother’s fears, you must distance yourself from the king.” A stubborn expression that Ælfgar knew only too well settled over Alfifa.

  “What does my mother have to do with this? Has she been interfering?”

  “She spoke with me. She’s concerned for you, as we are.” As he spoke Ælfgar indicated his wife with a movement of his hand, but Alfifa shook her head, her chin raised in defiance.

  “My mother is merely jealous that I married Harald. She’d never have thought her daughter could win the heart of the King of England. She’ll do anything to drive a wedge between our happy union.”

  Choking at the words, Ælfgar’s mouth opened in shock.

  “Your mother is not a jealous woman. Her concerns are for you, and any children you may bear for the king. If he does this to you, what will he do to a screaming child? A child will not take his beatings in the silence you’ve adopted.”

  Still, Alfifa shook her head. Fury in her eyes.

  “Once I’m with child, the king will do the right thing. He’s promised me he’ll acknowledge the marriage should I carry a child for him.”

  “So this is all just a test then? To make sure you’re fertile?” The acerbic reply from Elgiva fell sullenly into a strained silence.

  “He’s within his rights to have a wife who can birth an heir for him,” Alfifa retorted, her colour high at the discussion.

  “And you’re within your rights to be treated as a wife and not a whore. You should have fine gowns and jewels, you should sit in a place of honour, as Lady Ælfgifu does, and not have your assets handled in public. The king is a disgrace, and you must not allow it to continue.”

  “Why, what would you do? Take me from him, as you just have. He’ll hunt for me. He loves me. He wants me by his side.” Boldness laced her words, for all, her chin trembled as well.

  As ever, the argument was pointless and vexing, and Ælfgar turned to his wife who opened and closed her mouth without finding the right words she wished to say. Elgiva had been arguing with her friend for months longer than Ælfgar, and yet neither of them could make any headway. Every time Alfifa returned to Harald’s side, and every time, he continued to mistreat her.

  “For now, you should stay here with us. It would be best for my wife’s peace of mind, if not your own.” Ælfgar spoke calmly. The time for harsh words was long past.

  “On your wedding night? I would sooner not,” Alfifa spoke decisively, but Ælfgar merely glared.

  “There’s another bed for you, look, at the end of the hall.” He pointed into the recesses of the hall and heard a huff of acceptance.

  “Very well, I’ll remain here, with you. But I’ll return to Harald when he’s less … drunk.” That word seemed to satisfy Alfifa, although it didn’t Ælfgar. He was unprepared to make excuses for the king, especially where matters of the heart were concerned.

  “Now,” Alfifa said, trying to lighten the tone. “I believe that you have other business to be about.” So said, she stood, and grabbing a candle, made her way to the far end of the hall. Ælfgar knew a bed had been made up within the room, although none had envisaged anyone sleeping in there. Hastily, and before she could change her mind, he turned to the door to ensure it was locked and barred against any incursion.

  And that was the other reason Lady Godgifu had chosen this room for her son’s wedding night. It held a sturdy locking mechanism that would hopefully deter all who wished to catch sight of the newlywed couple or even those who wanted to play unkind jokes upon them.

  The lock caught with a satisfyingly loud smack of metal on metal, and Ælfgar turned to his wife. Elgiva was watching him with a haunted expression, and he went to her side and enveloped her within his arms, pulling her close, and also throwing a fur around their shoulders.

  This wasn’t the first time they’d been forced to intervene to help Alfifa, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. He also appreciated that consummating their marriage would be the furthest thing from his wife’s mind, and so he held her, rocking her gently in his arms.

  He settled to the silence of the hall, punctuated by the rowdy antics of those still sober enough to feast and drink, and the more gentle crackle and pop of the logs in the hearth.

  Slowly, he felt his own eyes start to close, as he enjoyed the smell of his wife, her body relaxing against his so that he knew she was close to sleep. It had been a long and trying day, although punctuated with joy, and they had the rest of their lives to engage in the pleasures of the marital bed.

  Elgiva, however, seemed to have different ideas, and instead of sleep she turned to him and smiled shyly.

  “Well, I think I might be ready for my bed, rather than some sleep.” The haunted fears for her friend’s safety had left her face, and instead his young bride watched him intently, as though testing him.

  “Well, I’m never one to disappoint a lady,” he mumbled softly, reaching out to kiss her soft lips. The spark that built between them was immediate and intense, and with no thought for Alfifa, and her predicament, he stood, reached for his wife’s hand, and led her to their bedchamber

  A lone candle lit the interior, just enough to ensure they didn’t walk into the heavy wooden furniture, while a small brazier drove the slight chill from the air. Elgiva leaned into his embrace, her body hot against his own, as she discarded the fur, and her own clothing almost in one fluid movement. Without hesitation she reached for his head, pulling his lips to her own, and he reciprocated, as he’d dreamed of doing since they’d first met.

  A murmur of pleasure rose from her, as she quickly divested Ælfgar of his own clothing, and then they were tumbling onto the soft furs that covered the elaborate bed frame, and he thought of little but pleasuring his new wife.

  Chapter Eleven

  AD1037 Oxford Leofric

  Leofric watched his king pace, with the annoyed expression of a man who’d drunk too much the night before, and whose head thudded with each and every pound of heavy footfall.

  Leofric would have liked nothing better than to call his foster-son to task, as he might have done when he was much younger, but Leofric knew the relationship with Harald wouldn’t allow such a slight to the king’s honour.

  Instead, Leofric winced and wished that either his head, or his stomach, or the king, would settle. He also wished he’d indulged himself less the night before. And, he craved to know what had riled the king so early in the day.

  Few stirred within the hall, surprisingly, for the king was neither quiet nor gentle as he paced. Leofric took i
t as a compliment. The House of Leofwine had provided a wonderful feast, wine and ale flowing freely, and everyone had taken their share. Now they would suffer for it. As he was.

  At his side, his brother, Eadwine, watched the king with a wince. It seemed he too had drunk too much.

  “Why won’t he stop?” Eadwine complained with a whine, and Leofric stifled a chuckle at the mirror of his own thoughts.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever known the king to wake so early,” Leofric confided in his brother, before they both lapsed into silence, chastened by a glare from the king at their subdued chuckling.

  “A fine feast,” Eadwine complimented him, reaching for the jug that contained fresh, cool water for him to quench his thirst. “You’ve done your son proud,” he offered and then lapsed back into silence.

  Leofric was fidgeting. He’d barely closed his eyes before the king had woken him with a thwack on his back as he’d walked through the sleeping mass of bodies. Yet whatever had troubled Harald so much that he’d returned to the site of the feast at a ridiculous time wasn’t to be shared with Leofric.

  Irritated, as his brother snored beside him, his head on his folded arms, Leofric felt his eyelids fluttering. He needed to sleep, and he needed the king to stop bloody stalking along the dais and sod off back to his own home in Oxford.

  Sighing heavily, he made to stand, but Harald, catching his movement, irritably waved at him to remain seated. Leofric did as he was bid, hooking his brother’s mug as he did so, and splashing water down his parched throat.

  He felt as though he’d drunk mud last night, and his tongue was misbehaving, sticking to the roof of his mouth one moment, and demanding more fluid with the next. His head was an agony, and the door hadn’t even been opened yet to let in the light of the day. Only a handful of candles were lit, and still, they plagued his eyes.

  It was the middle of the bloody night, or so it felt, and Leofric yearned for sleep and rest. At his feet, his hound, Hund, stirred, bright eyes in the gloom of the table watching him as though he too questioned what his master was doing awake.